


Royal Flush

by thoughtsablaze



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/F, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 23:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14199711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsablaze/pseuds/thoughtsablaze
Summary: Riza masters Flame Alchemy. Roy never existed. And that makes all the difference.





	Royal Flush

Father loves you enough to burn.

Military screams lie after lie. The propaganda nearly works; you, too, get lost in the thrill and terror of war and the _other_. Ishval ought to rot. Ishval and its people ought to die. The _ought_ ; as if it is morally right. What you are doing is God’s plan. You make him smile, and he specifically chose you, _you_ , little Riza, to thrust the earth into ablaze.

The inferno is never warm. Always freezing; _chill_ , gnawing deep into the pores of your skin, your nails, your breasts, thighs, the entirety of your body. They don’t die from the heat. The Alchemy you produce is the least bit warm. Your Alchemy is _lethal_ ; something forbidden and inhumane. By this point, it doesn’t frighten you––how _easy_ it is to click your fingers, to watch flames _burst_ and chaos erupt.

It becomes clearer and clearer that you are here for one reason: your Alchemy. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have bothered with the immediate promotion, dragging you to the front lines, and destroying every last one of them. The orders are simple: kill. And you are a good, obedient little girl. Father always made sure of that.

When children scream and cry, you consider ending your own life.

At least you wouldn’t have to see anymore. None of their tears, their eyes, the very _second_ before you––

The stench of ash makes you vomit.

Until there’s nothing left for you to throw up, so you just _gag_.

Your hands are shaking while you wipe your mouth. That’s when you notice just how _dirty_ you are. The military uniform, once royal blue, is stained black. Your eyes are old. Face pale, cheeks hollow, a shadow of what you were. But what were you before now? You can’t remember; can’t decide. Daddy’s favourite; daddy’s baby girl; oh, he taught you _so_ well, and you were _so_ well behaved.

Eventually, the war is over, you’re still breathing, and you think: _that sounds about right_. Never have you considered yourself religious, but if there is a God, he is _punishing_ you.

They assign you to Central City Headquarters, within close proximity of the Führer himself. You’re awarded your own fancy office, your own men, and another promotion to boot. They’re in a hurry to forget. To get _you_ to move on. The war never happened, the children you burnt alive were never born; it’s a nightmare you must shake.

‘Congratulations, Lieutenant Colonel.’

You try to smile but you’re trying not to choke from the amount of _ash_ in your mouth.

Gradually, symptoms begin to erupt.

Usually you forget to eat. Other times, you don’t want to. You lose weight drastically fast. What digs the blade deeper into your spine is the alcohol. Although that accident is brief. You’ve never been much of a drinker, after all, but there’s a certain _satisfaction_ the drink offers. If anything, the booze makes your hell simpler.

Rebecca Catalina is an urgent listener.

The bar is old, rustic, traditional. The ale is all right, but you’ve lost the will to care nowadays.

‘At least you’re no longer there, sweet.’

‘I know,’ your voice is soft, always soft. Once, Catalina remarked how terrifying you would be when you eventually _cracked_. ‘Is it wrong if I wish I were, though?’ You even surprise yourself with that remark. Swallowing, you expect her to pass judgement, but when you look at her, she’s gone distant; as if _realising_.

Then, ‘No,’ she sighs. ‘I’m kind of the same.’

It’s regrettable how you both never met on the battlefield.

Then again, maybe not.

A long silence ticks by unnoticed.

Catalina rests her head on your shoulder, and you pay for the next round.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Major General Armstrong arrives at Central City Headquarters, it’s the first time you’ve seen her. Of course you’ve heard about the General. Her controversial views, her lack of input in the war; how she is the first woman, ever, to achieve such a high rank. Anybody with half a brain would find her admirable.

You always have. Even so, you don’t show it. You greet each other with professionalism, and you both find each other impossible to read. But she holds your gaze, just a second longer. A curiosity flickers between you both, and then she’s gone.

The office welcomes you with mountains of paperwork. So you sit down and get on with it. No complains, no procrastinating––they think you a workaholic and it isn’t a compliment. But that’s the job. That’s what it means to protect your people. You do the action, which is certainly the best part, but then you have to keep the information rolling. Sign papers, write reports, do the tedious.

Slacking off is a pet peeve of yours. Two of your subordinates have neglected to complete their duties for the day, and you scold them. You _lose your temper_ ,  and even though your voice comes out gentle, there’s a petrifying edge to it. They stand, alert, horrified at the mistake they’ve made, and take your disciplining.

‘Apologies, Colonel,’ one of them says. The other mumbles a “sorry” under his breath, and you dismiss the two.

You should have let them stay and correct their mistakes, though. Instead, you do it. On top of your own work, you have your subordinates’ and you’re _annoyed_. What is the point in having people who work _for_ you, when you end up doing _their_ work?

By the time you’re finished, it’s nearing midnight.

A knock at the door makes you jump. The papers nearly slip out of your hands.

Major General Armstrong doesn’t wait for an invitation. You immediately click your heels together, more out of respect than anything. ‘General,’ you say. ‘I thought you must have left?’

‘No,’ she says, almost _bored_. ‘I rarely make visits south, so when I do, I make sure my stay is thorough so there’s no excuse for a prompt return. Why are you still here?’

It sounds like a criticism. You don’t look away. ‘I, too, make a thorough job, ma’am.’

She steps over. Opens her hand, and you pass over the paperwork. Olivier briefly glances through the papers, twitches a smile. ‘Cleaning up after your subordinates, I see.’ She passes back the paperwork. You don’t appreciate that comment. ‘I’ve heard much about you, Colonel Hawkeye. Your work in the war.’

You hear it. _Just_.

The _mockery_. Inhaling deep, you nod. ‘Thank you.’

‘Well,’ she pauses. Raises a brow, studying you with such intensity, you become very self-conscious. ‘It’s good to finally see another woman rise in the ranks. An Alchemist, aren’t you?’ You nod again. ‘Flame Alchemy? I hear that’s the most difficult. In fact, so difficult, nobody was able to accomplish it successfully.’

‘My father dedicated his life to his work, General.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ She folds her arms. ‘How long did it take you to master Flame Alchemy?’

‘… _years_.’

‘Hm.’

And, for a moment, Olivier Armstrong nearly admires you too.

‘Go home, Hawkeye. You’re no use to us tired.’

Swiftly, she turns on her heel, and leaves the office.

The moment she’s gone, you exhale heavily, unaware how long you’ve been holding your breath for.

You don’t go home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The alleyway begins to crumble, and one of the assailants starts to scream for mercy. You give it to him. _You’re no murderer_. There are six others. One of them comes at you with a knife, glistening in the sunlight. Another fires bullets; _just_ grazes your ear. Your Lieutenant fails to defend you, but fortunately it isn’t just you two who have been assigned to the mission. With reluctance, the Major General followed the Führer’s orders to help out. Whatever that means.

She makes it look easy. Probably because it is for her. She doesn’t bother with weapons. Not when it’s this tedious. In fact, she’s skilled in physical combat, and effortlessly disarms the gunman, knocking him out cold across the head. This allows you to fire. And when flame bursts from your palm, you can _feel_ her eyes on you, and it is neither hate or want. She is fascinated and disgusted.

A spiral of fire circles your body when you attack the final assailant, whose face cries with terror at the sight of you. Both you and General Armstrong take down the gang without any trouble whatsoever, and neither of you are surprised.

‘Whoa,’ a sergeant grins, who was most unhelpful during the ordeal. ‘You ladies sure know how to look after yourselves.’

Olivier makes a _tsk_ sound, accustomed to being patronised by the opposite sex. But you––you turn on him, eyes golden, ‘That’s _Colonel_ to _you_.’ The air snaps.

The sergeant goes a deep shade of red.

Until he exhales loudly, and awkwardly says, ‘Sorry, I was just, y’know, passing a compliment––’

‘A _compliment_?’ Olivier challenges. She raises a brow, smiling crookedly. Amused. ‘If that’s the best you can come up with, I would be embarrassed too.’

You nearly laugh. You don’t want to, you can’t let her know, but it doesn’t really matter anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After work, she invites you for a drink––she leaves tomorrow, after all––and you oblige. It’s the first time you’ve ever gone out, and _genuinely wanted to_. She allows you to take the initiative, and you take her to the same bar Catalina and you attend. Olivier drinks ale as well, and she drinks pints like you, and that’s important.

‘Have you enjoyed your visit?’

‘No offence, Hawkeye, but I hate it here.’

‘Ah.’

‘Or, to be precise, I hate the people here.’

You blink. Drink your ale, and you’re tempted to thank her; you’re not sure why. But you want to. You want to thank her for today, when she defended you with those assailants and the sergeant. You want to thank her for being a woman too, and having her head down too, and just _getting on with the job too_ , even if the world hates you for it.

But you also want to ask the inevitable.

Why does she hate you for fighting in the war? And, better yet, why does she hate you for learning Flame Alchemy?

‘I would like to visit Briggs sometime.’

‘You are welcome to.’ She casts her eyes in your direction. Cold, yet an angelic blue. Almost unfitting. ‘If you weren’t trapped in this shithole, I might have had you reassigned north.’

‘I like it here,’ you reply calmly.

‘Huh. Suit yourself.’

‘Besides, it’s close to where my Father lived.’

‘Why does that matter?’

It matters because that house contains _everything_ regarding Flame Alchemy. The illustrations, essays, thesis, the Transmutation Circles engraved into the floorboard, the place where your Father gasped his last, _begged_ you not to join the military––

‘There are secrets.’

She frowns, but doesn’t push you to reveal any more.

‘Is that why you fought in the war?’

Olivier raises the glass to her lips too quickly. She has been _dying_ to ask you, to prod you with that question, and already you can feel the anger _spike_. Although you’re not sure what makes you so _livid_. The fact she cares _this much_ , or the fact _you do_.

She watches you while you drink over half of your pint. Gently place it onto the bar, run your hand through your hair, and whisper, ‘I needed the money, General Armstrong.’

Olivier doesn’t touch her drink after that.

‘I’m pleased they paid you well for burning people alive––’

 _There_.

She didn’t hesitate to _budge_ the blade, and you shoot to your feet, _glaring_ at her. The ranks topple over. And you can tell she’s not proud of her words. But it’s too late. Olivier doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t stop you from _hating_ her in this second.

The girl is used to it.

‘Don’t,’ you whisper. Quiet enough just for her to hear. But your eyes are ablaze, your heart on fire, and you’re _shaking_. Hurt, traumatised, _wounded so **deeply**_. ‘ _You were not there_.’

She breathes, ‘Hawkeye––’

‘ _You were not there_. And I am _sick_ to death of you, and everybody else who didn’t fight, trying to take the high ground on this. I didn’t have a choice. Either I signed up, or I was sacked. And I couldn’t afford that. I followed orders, and I killed, _yes_ , but never _once_ did I think it heroic or right. It was… it was so _awful_ …’

‘ _Hawkeye_ ––’

‘And even if I didn’t end up fighting, somebody else would have. Somebody else would have learnt Flame Alchemy, taken my place, and killed many. But, for some reason, it was _me_.’ You exhale, trembling, tears scorching your eyes, and you roughly wipe them dry. ‘I am _relieved_ it was me, though. That _I_ had to carry the burden and nobody else, because I would never, _ever_ , wish it on anybody.’

You stop. You’re done. You’re tired, exhausted from fighting your own battles, and suddenly you are _furious_ at your Father. What he has done to you, what he forced upon you. How proud and special you were the moment you could perform Alchemy.

He made it seem so beautiful.

Slowly, you sit back down, and you’ve gone vacant.

Olivier has to recover and break the quiet.

So she does.

‘I apologise.’

That is not what you expect to hear.

‘I just needed to understand.’

‘Do you?’ You soften your expression, for her, and you both watch each other for a little longer than normal.

‘I will,’ she says. ‘I may not have fought in the war, Hawkeye, because I have been on the other side of it. I recruited a young Ishvalan man. You probably heard about this. He was a lucky one who got away. But the first time I saw him––he had seen things nobody should. It was hard, trying to console him, trying to get him to trust me.’

Miles. Of course you’ve heard. When Olivier did this, the entire of Amestris roared out in anger. They called her a traitor, a whore, all the typical insults she’s used to by now. Except this was personal. Olivier had deliberately disobeyed the Führer, and recruited a man who had no business on Amestrian soil.

The two of you fought the war in your own way. Only yours was more–– _direct_.

‘Now he is my second-in-command. But it’s never easy coming back home. Especially after what I did.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Anyway,’ Olivier breathes. ‘Let’s forget about it.’

You smile, then.

The two of you meet in reconciliation. And it’s a weight off your chest.

‘So, your Father’s home. Secrets, eh?’

‘Let me show you.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The staircase creaks. Floorboard whines with age. The rooms are covered in white sheets, a pathetic attempt to protect the house from dust. You nearly apologise for the state that it is in, but why would you? You can’t apologise for your Father.

Olivier keeps her hands in her coat pockets. She is complex to read, but there’s something about this house she isn’t fond of. It makes her want to wrap herself in close. An unusual sight, from a woman who is, indeed, as resilient as she is.

You take her to your Father’s office.

‘It’s heavy material, but…’ You pass her a book, filled with your Father’s notes and illustrations. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t express anything, flicking through, careful not to bend or rip the paper. There are a few loose sheets, some pages are written in another language, and then she reaches the Flame Alchemy Transmutation Circle.

There are a variety.

In fact, loads. Olivier throws you a puzzled expression by the amount.

‘The Transmutation Circle is… _tricky_.’

Then it occurs to you Olivier is completely ignorant of this stuff. She has no idea how to react, what to comment on; she’s only heard and observed Alchemy. Never read about it, especially from a professor. And you find it endearing.

‘My Father was the only person in the world who could figure it out. It took him his entire life. It _took_ his life.’ You pause. It’s the first time you’ve admitted the cause of his death, and it’s a shock. ‘The details aren’t necessary to worry over.’ You take the book, closing it shut. ‘Finally, my Father managed to figure it out, but he couldn’t tell a soul. _I_ can’t tell a soul. He said, to actually let _anybody_ have this amount of power––’ you shake your head, laughing meekly, ‘It’s madness. He spent his whole life dedicated to Flame Alchemy, and could only conclude it was _insane_.’

She doesn’t reply. Just watches, just listens, and she _hears you_.

‘It was a long time until I no longer depended on him.’ You pull out one of your gloves from your pocket, the Transmutation Circle sewn across. ‘These help. My Father promised if I kept going, I may no longer require the Transmutation Circle. I doubt that, though.’ You hope to _never_ get to that point. ‘One can’t just take my gloves, however. The formula, everything, _that’s_ the difficult bit. Trying to fathom the Array is another thing.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘My Father’s notes before he passed away. He had to keep them somewhere safe.’

Olivier remains silent. She flicks her eyes to the floor briefly, then back at you, wondering, trying to figure out what you’re saying. You haven’t told anybody. Haven’t shown anybody. And you have half a mind to close the conversation and leave the house.

God, you _loathe_ this place.

But you trust her enough to betray him.

‘Do you mind?’

Olivier frowns. ‘Mind what?’

There’s no point discussing it. When you begin to unbutton your blouse, Olivier takes one step back, but curious. Interested. Your hands shake, your heart is in your mouth, and all you can picture is your Father’s horrified expression at what you’re about to reveal.

But all you know is that she isn’t an Alchemist, and she _needs_ to know.

Someone has to.

And, in this world, it has to be her.

You turn your back to her. The blouse slips from your shoulders. Olivier stiffens at the large, monstrous tattoo, and you let her see it all when you remove your bra. And it’s there. For her. Every inch. Olivier won’t be able to make sense of it, but she’s not an idiot. She knows the significance of this tattoo, she can imagine what has been written, scribbled and shredded across your vulnerable skin.

‘This is everything you need to know about Flame Alchemy,’ you say. Inhale deeply, peer at her over your shoulder. Olivier hasn’t moved and her expression is illegible. She’s studying––or attempting to. Attempting to grasp the horrendous details you’ve thrown at her. ‘I’ve wanted to _burn_ it off for _years_ , but…’

You hear her footsteps. Light _taps_ against the wood. Then she reaches for your blouse, and passes it over. ‘Get dressed, Hawkeye.’ _I’ve seen enough_ , you can hear her say. You do as your commanding officer orders, uncertain, hoping she’ll understand, or, at least, empathise.

Olivier has turned away, giving you privacy while you dress, but her mind is elsewhere.

‘He did that to you?’

‘Yes,’ you reply. ‘I let him.’

‘Oh.’ Olivier turns to face you. Unfazed. ‘Did it hurt?’

‘A little bit.’

The agony was paralytic.

But Olivier doesn’t have to know about that.

Then, it’s back to duty. Olivier rolls back her shoulders, stands straight, older, more experienced, a woman. ‘Best you take your Father’s work elsewhere, Hawkeye. I’d hate for it to be placed in the wrong hands.’

‘I shall.’

‘My parents own several estates, one here. You are free to store anything you need there. Rest assured, nobody will suspect a thing.’ She smiles crookedly. ‘Money can give you all kinds of protection.’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Why would I? It’s the least I can do.’

Relieved, if not slightly confused, you smile at her. ‘Thank you, General.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

None of it is simple. Alchemy is overwhelming; riddled with equations, mathematics, a science nobody is capable of comprehending. Languages, hand techniques, a _will_ for madness. The brain struggles so dearly to understand, it’s no surprise all the genius in the world loses their mind, withers away.

Control.

Alchemy is complete and utter control.

Precision. The ability to stay _focussed_. To not get distracted, or grow frustrated, or give up, because it’s all just so _hard_. Control is essential. To be in control of one’s own learning, one’s own Alchemy. If you could not control your Flame Alchemy, the earth would be in devastation. That is why Father chose you.

That is why Father loved you.

In reality, Alchemy is chaos. Nothing about it holds any logic. Nothing about it makes sense, and the human brain is just too small, and too fragile to get anywhere _near_ to the truth. That is why so many Alchemists barely last long. Suicide is a typical means to end it all.

Olivier is controlled, focussed, and you sigh, hating yourself for thinking she would be _perfect_.

It’s spring when you decide to transfer your Father’s notes to somewhere safe. You’re flattered, honoured, when Olivier makes the extra effort to travel down and help you. Her family welcome you with open arms, and you’re amazed Olivier––the woman she is––has such a warm, happy, almost flawless family.

You have met her brother, Alex, before, and he greets you with open arms. Olivier deliberately ignores him. A sibling feud you don’t dare get involved with. But it’s refreshing, seeing the domestics. Alex obliges to help carry boxes of your Father’s books and notes into the attic. He doesn’t ask what is contained in them. Just helps without any agenda.

Olivier addresses the maids and servants directly. They are forbidden to enter the attic, and she makes a note of that to her own parents as well. You blush slightly, feeling invasive, but her parents seem comfortable with the arrangement. Either way, none of them will be able to understand your Father’s work.

At one point, she passes you, and you both share a familiar smile; the sort of smile two friends would share, except it’s–– _knowing_. A sort of intimacy which makes your heart skip two beats. She smells of perfume when she walks by; something warm and kind.

‘What are your plans with the house?’

You won’t move in. That’s for sure. In fact, you want to knock it down, have a school or hospital built on top, but––

‘It’s yours.’

Olivier raises her brows, surprised. ‘Mine?’

‘If you want it. I trust you to make the right decision with the place. Knowing me, I would just––ignore it.’

‘Of course. If that’s what you really want.’

You want many things. What you need, though, is right in front of you, and you can’t _reach_ far enough.

The keys are in her hand, the boxes piled away safely upstairs, and that’s business done.

You nearly say thank you. But _thank you_ is so overrated.

‘Good bye.’

The two of you shake hands, and she squeezes, slightly, affectionately, and you smile. ‘Remember, you are welcome to visit Briggs. I haven’t forgotten about what you said.’

But so much _was_ said. So much _has_ been said between you both.

Olivier releases you, and you wish she hadn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You spend your twenty-eighth Birthday at Fort Briggs. The fact it’s your Birthday is a coincidence, and you don’t let anybody know. Especially in a place like this. Fort Briggs is titanic. That is the only way you can describe it. The wall is impenetrable, frightening, monstrous, and proud. But it is so far apart from the country it defends.

These men and women who walk the halls are outcasts. Criminals, bastards, the ugly. The comradery is unique. Despite appearances, they are not cruel. They recognise you, stand and salute. They know _what_ you are. An outcast too.

You’re just foolish enough to call Central home.

Olivier meets you on the roof where you patrol. Drachma is tiny, further north, goading and waiting. Amestris and Drachma have their disagreements, but Fort Briggs and Drachma hate each other. It is a predicament you have no right to delve into. You are a Colonel of Amestris, not Fort Briggs. If it weren’t for this place, there may not _be_ an Amestris in the first place.

‘You will get used to the cold.’

‘I like it,’ you sigh, white cloud passing your lips. You enjoy the pain. The chill. The very opposite of what you are. ‘General?’

‘Mm?’

‘You have no railings.’

‘What?’

‘People could fall.’

You don’t know why you mention the drop. The fact there isn’t a barrier of any kind preventing such a thing.

Olivier steps over to where you stand.

Places a hand on your arm, and urges you back.

‘Then don’t stand so close.’

You look at her, young and aged. ‘Sorry––the view was just so beautiful.’

Olivier retreats. ‘Don’t stay out too long,’ and escapes before you’re able to stun her again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Major Miles asks you to go to General Armstrong’s office, you’re off-duty, and halfway through removing your shirt. He sees the Array, and you don’t know if he’s aware of it; what conversations Olivier and her faithful second-in-command have shared.

But he doesn’t bat an eye.

You button your shirt up again, pull on your coat, and follow him.

Miles has a calm manner about him. You can’t believe he was once as wild as Olivier described him to be. Hurt and assaulted by the war. He smiles at you, warmly, and you can’t help but smile back. ‘I have been wanting to meet you for some time, Colonel. I hope that’s not too forward.’

‘No, not at all,’ you say. ‘I have felt the same way. General Armstrong speaks highly of you.’

‘Ah.’ He chuckles. ‘That’s generous of her.’

You arrive at her office, knock, and Miles leave you be. Upon entering, you suddenly begin to feel nervous, yet elevated in a way. Olivier knows you’re off-duty. So, she hasn’t brought you here to talk about work.

Olivier is seated behind her desk, busy scribbling away, but she gestures you to enter.

‘Take a seat,’ she says, voice steady, firm.

You sit opposite. The office is nearly bare; tidy. You wonder if Olivier has to deal with as much paperwork as you; what kind of fieldwork actually occurs here. Fort Briggs just feels so far away from everything else. Really, you don’t blame the General for being critical of Central, when the place has no idea what’s going on at the Wall.

Especially with all these soldiers do.

‘How have you found it here?’

‘I’ve enjoyed it, General.’

She stops writing. Looks at you. Tired. ‘A letter has arrived for you.’ She passes it over, and you take it. The letter is written by the Führer himself, but what shocks you is the message.

Two young boys from Resembool have performed Human Transmutation.

Unsupervised.

Illegally.

Two. Boys.

The horror stills you.

A chill grapples your spine, and you re-read the letter, wondering if you’re going mad, but it glares true. Two young boys whom reside in Resembool, East State.

Human Transmutation.

‘ _How_ ––?’

You’re struck silent.

How can two little boys perform Human Transmutation?! Who in their right mind would do something so horrific? How could they have not foreseen the consequences? What kind of _children_ ––?!

You catch your breath.

Stand to your feet. ‘I have to leave.’

Olivier stands too. ‘What’s happened?’

You give her the letter. ‘It’s––I have to––’

‘How is this possible?’

‘That’s the same question I’m asking.’

‘I’ll have Major Miles arrange transport for you.’

‘I need to be back before tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes, I know––’

‘ _Fuck_!’ Olivier halts at that. Not because you swore, but because you’re panicking; you’re frightened, you’re angry, oh those _stupid boys_! ‘We went through such an effort to make sure nobody found out about Flame Alchemy, and then _this_ happens. My Father was so obsessed, and so was I, and we had no idea that the worst kind of Transmutation was right in front of us. Why didn’t I think about that? These poor kids, I could’ve––’

She rests her hands on your shoulders, stunning you quiet, and you look at her. Olivier is infuriately calm about all of this, if not slightly intrigued, but she _gets_ you. She knows. She knows you’re frightened, and you can’t possibly _fathom_ what these children have witnessed and, yes, if you had been there, or if _anybody_ had been there, it wouldn’t have happened. But that’s beside the point.

‘You’re _going_ , Hawkeye. That’s plenty.’

Nausea grapples you. ‘I––yes.’

Her hands drop, and she proceeds to the door. A soldier waits outside. ‘Get Major Miles to arrange transport for Colonel Hawkeye. _Now_.’ He hurries off, and Olivier closes the door. ‘Have you ever dealt with this kind of thing before, Colonel?’

‘No,’ you swallow, clenched fists.

Olivier nods. Gaze goes distant. Then: ‘The sight won’t be pretty.’

‘I know.’

But you’re trying not to think about that.

‘You’re dismissed, Hawkeye.’

‘Thank you.’

It’s all so fast. The good bye. And you’re not sure why you feel disappointed, why you are so upset and angry and worried about these two boys, but you can’t obsess your time over what is irrelevant. You walk over to the door where she stands.

‘Keep me updated.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Make the mistake of looking at her.

But it’s all the information she needs.

Olivier kisses you. She kisses you, because you need to be kissed, and you need her to kiss you. To kiss you calm, to kiss you because somebody, _somebody_ , does know every grim truth about your life, and that whatever happens next, as scary as it will be, is just between the two of you. A secret you have both sealed.

Want dominates you, and when she lets you go, you want to grab her, wrap your arms around her, kiss her lips, her face, just stay a little while longer until you can breathe again, until you’re steady and––

But neither of you have ever given yourself the mercy.

‘General.’

A second. One second, a silence you both hold.

And then you leave.

Major Miles meets you at the gates. The blizzard is ruthless, but you remain undeterred. You imagine what these boys look like, what they must be feeling, what _happened_ , and those two boys are at the centre of everything now.

So, you breathe in the freeze, ready yourself, and take aim.

 


End file.
